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Category Archives: daily madness

My dear, amazing, wonderful, patient, drop dead gorgeous readers,
I’m so sorry that I have been so negligent with the blog. I broke it and I couldn’t figure out how to fix it. That’s why it’s been months since my last post.

How did I break the blog, you ask?

I have no idea.

And it still isn’t fixed.

I’m at school writing this listening to one of the most awkward conversations on simulated male genitalia.

Don’t ask.

Anyway, for some strange reason, I’ve decided to apply to doctoral programs.

I have no idea why I’m doing this.

Yes, I do.

But at this moment the reasons seem contrived and hard to believe.

In order to apply to doctoral programs and have any hope of being accepted, I had to take the GRE Subject Test in Literature. Do you remember what happened the last time I took the GRE?

Now that you’ve read that you can probably imagine how absolutely terrified I was to take the subject test. For those of you unfamiliar with the subject test in literature, you should know that the subject test expects you to have a working knowledge of everything that was ever written ever.

You see how incredibly difficult that is.

However, I had a game plan.

My friends, Meg and Gabby.

When faced with an extremely difficult intellectual task, cling to the friends that are smarter than you and ride their coattails into the world of academia.

Thankfully, I have smart friends in abundant supply.

As soon as I said, “I’m gonna take the GRE subject test!” Meg and Gabby, “Awesome, so here’s what we’re gonna go: we made a list of terms, theories, authors, and forms that are likely to appear on the exam. You’re going to take 1/3 of the list and define those terms on convenient note cards. When you’re finished with said note cards we’re going to study together for at least 2-3 hours 2-3 days a week. The weekend before the test we’re going to study for 27 hours and then we’ll study Wednesday from 4-9, Thursday from 3- whenever, and Friday from 4-death. Is that feasible?”

“Um…can I just wing it?”

“No.”

And so about a month ago I started studying.

At first I was really excited about everything I was learning.

DAY TWO OF NOTE CARDS: “Wow! I had completely forgotten what assonance was! Good thing I’m studying.”

That buoyancy was quickly lost.

DAY TWENTY OF NOTE CARDS: “If I hear the word ‘epigram’ one more time I’m gonna gut someone like a fish.”

When I say that the GRE subject test in literature expects you to have a working knowledge of everything that was ever written ever I’m not kidding. Even the study guide I borrowed from my friend, Monique, said, “The GRE subject test expects you to have a working knowledge of everything that was ever written ever. Obviously this is not possible. Good luck. You’ve got a snowflake’s chance in hell.”

It may not have said it in those exact words, but that sentiment was definitely implied.

Here’s an example of a GRE subject test questions:

A poet’s part-by-part enumeration of his mistress’s beauties draws on a rhetorical structure known as the:

A) Interlace pattern

B) Epithalamion

C) Apostrophe

D) Debat

E) Blazon

When you come face to face with the GRE subject test it says, “Oh you have a B.A. in English? That’s cute.”

“You’re working on an M.A.? Aww, how precious.”

“What’s that? You think you know literature? That’s adorable.”

While I was studying for the test I would often drift to sleep with a literary term bouncing around in my head. When I woke up, I would immediately define that term.

12am: “What is catachresis? Did I study that already? I must have. What on earth is catachresis? Catachresis…catachresis…is when you catch a cat…with a crease…(snore).”

6am: “Catachressis is the misapplication of a word or the extension of a word’s meaning in a surprising but strictly illogical metaphor. I’m awesome! (evaluates life) If I keep doing stuff like this I’m totally going to die alone.”

The GRE started to permeate every part of my life.

In my car: (singing Tay Tay Swift) “You were Romeo I was the Scarlet Letter and my daddy said, ‘Stay away from Juliet! – wait a second. Is that catachresis?”

* Yes, I often sing Taylor Swift on my way to school. No, you may not judge my taste in music.

Reading the Bible: (Matthew 19:30) “But many who are first will be last, and may who are last will be first. Is that a chiasmus? I’m pretty sure that’s chiasmus. BOOYAH! Look whose finding literary terms in the word of God! YES! I AM AWESOME!!! (evaluates spirituality) I am the worst Christian on earth.”

My experience studying with Gabby and Meg was surprisingly similar to my experience working on note cards.

HOUR TWO:

Me: Tell me about William Faulkner.

Meg: Southern gothic writer during the 1920s. Wrote The Sound and the Fury, Light in August, As I Lay Dying, and A Rose for Emily. Majority of his stories take place in the fictional Yoknapatawpha County.

Me: Tell me about Gertrude Stein.

Gabby: Expatriate writer, published The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas in 1933.

HOUR 22:

Me: Tell me about William Faulkner.

Meg: F*ck Faulkner.

Me: Ok, we can come back to that one. Tell me about Gertrude Stein.

Gabby: Lesbian.

However, I was not much better.

HOUR TWO:

Meg: What did Oscar Wilde write?

Me: Some stuff…people read it…whatever.

Gabby: Define New Criticism.

Me: It’s new. It’s criticism. Done.

God bless Gabby and Meg. They’re much better at saving their crankiness until the end of the study session. My temper tantrums reared their ugly heads from out the gate.

Since I started teaching last semester, I’ve learned many an important and frustrating lesson.

For example, students don’t text in class. It’s quite normal to stare at your genitals and smile. It helps them focus.

However, the most important lesson I’ve learned since I started teaching is that anything you say in class will turn into a creature from the black lagoon and destroy you where you stand.

In the spring when I was teaching in the Philosophy department, this fact wasn’t so evident to me. Perhaps it was because I was teaching upperclassmen or that I only saw my students one day a week, but when I interacted with them, I didn’t get the sense that they dealt in extremes.

It is true that some of them were EXTREMELY lazy, but for the most part they were a mild mannered, even tempered group with a sense of balance.

This is not the case with my class this semester.

Not only do they deal in extremes, they freakin’ major in them.

I’m going to blame this flaw on the fact that they’re freshmen and don’t know any better.

Using their freshmen status as a scapegoat also allows me to hope that they’ll grow out of it.

At the beginning of the semester, I noticed that my students were a tad wary of using the reading to support their arguments. They’re a smart bunch, but while they’re able to string two thoughts together in a somewhat coherent manner, their arguments fall a bit flat because they lack textual evidence. I reasoned that if they used the text, they would ultimately become stronger writers. My lovely and thoroughly developed mind worked out this equation and thought the logic behind it was sound:

Students + Thesis Statements+ Textual Evidence= Strong Papers

Unfortunately, my logic was severely flawed.

Also my equation failed to take into account the fact that my students major in EXTREMES.

Me: Try to use the text to support your argument.

Student: How do you feel about excessive quotes?

Me: You shouldn’t quote excessively, but you still need to use the text.

That piece of advice seems rather benign, does it not?

To your average human being it is.

But I deal with college freshmen.

Therefore when I said, “You shouldn’t quote excessively, but you still need to use the text” they heard, “You shouldn’t quote…the text.”

Imagine my surprise when I received 20 papers with nary a quotation in sight.

Me: I am so stupid.

So I thought I would amend what I had said in order to get my students to do what I actually wanted them to do.

Me: Make sure that you’re using the text. While the text is not the main focus of your paper, you still need to demonstrate that you understand it and are able to critically engage it.

They heard: Make sure…the text is…the main focus of your paper.

You can probably guess what happened next.

I received 20 papers with quotes, quotes, and more quotes.

Me: I am so stupid.

In two papers my students have gone from NOT quoting the text to ONLY quoting the text.

I’m not quite sure how to restore balance in the universe without inevitably screwing myself (and my students) over again.

In the five and a half years that I’ve lived in Florida, I haven’t had to deal with a hurricane.

About two weeks ago that changed.

Now I know why Floridians get so pissed off during hurricane season.

As you all know, Hurricane Isaac came a-knockin’ at our doors. He stormed in, made a mess of everything, formed a sinkhole, and then went to bother Louisiana because they haven’t gone through enough lately.

Poor Louisiana.

They’ve really been getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop.

Isaac didn’t hit my area as badly as it did others, but it still dumped a Biblical amount of water into my neighborhood and there was no Moses to be found.

Noah doesn’t live in the acreage either so I was completely screwed.

When I went to sleep, my neighborhood looked like this.

And when I woke up, it looked like this.

And yes, those are real live ducks in the picture.

At one point my neighbor was rowing a canoe down the road.

Because the local government hates the acreage, we were flooded in for 3 full days.

On day 1 I was pretty happy about the situation. FAU was closed which meant I had nowhere to go for the day. I spent the morning exercising, showered, did some reading for class, worked on some lesson plans, and then watched tv. Considering I hadn’t had a day off in weeks I was pretty calm and well pleased with being trapped in my house. I went to bed thinking, “Oh well, this was a nice day. Back to school tomorrow I guess.”

I guessed wrong.

I guessed oh so very wrong.

Tuesday morning I woke up around 6am, stumbled out of bed, and walked to the front door. Upon opening the front door I noticed the moon shining off the lake, glimmering like a jewel in the deep blue sky.

The only problem with that picture is that the lake was our front yard.

I stepped outside and said,” Um…what?”

At this point, Chi-chi and He-Man had woken up.

Chi-chi: You may not want to do that.

Me: Why not?

Chi-chi: Gators.

Me: This state sucks.

There was a foot of water in my front yard, surrounding our entire property. When the sun finally rose, Uncle Nigel and I rolled up our pant legs and went exploring. Yes, I know that’s extremely dangerous, but such is life and then you die… or get flooded in…and have ducks swimming in your front yard. We didn’t catch cholera or any of the other heinous diseases that breed in still water, however, we did find about five large koi that had swam out of someone’s backyard pond and into our driveway.

Koi are extremely friendly.

But koi will scare the bejeepers out of you if you don’t realize they’re there.

Uncle Nigel: Good Lord the entire neighborhood is flooded.

Me: What are those?

Uncle Nigel: Some kind of fish maybe.

Me: NO! NO! GATOR! NO! SOMETHING TOUCHED ME!

Uncle Nigel: Gyasi, those are koi.

Me: Oh. My, my those are some pretty fish.

Uncle Nigel: Those things sell for about $200 a piece.

Me: Get me a net. That’s tuition money.

By now, dear reader, you should know that I have no shame or scruples about selling someone else’s fish in order to pay my school bills.

Grad school will build your intellect while degrading your morals.

Positive and negative consequences, it’s all positive and negative consequence.

We did not succeed in catching the koi (because He-Man knew who they belonged to) and at this point in time I was going stir crazy. I did not want to read another essay. I did not want to exercise. I did not want to send another email, write another lesson plan, or take another bloody photo of the ducks in the front yard.

The ducks were starting to mock me anyways.

Quaky bastards.

I decided that come hell or high water (poor choice of words) I was going to leave the house the next day.

Wednesday came and there was absolutely no improvement in our situation. The water was just as high as it had been the day before. He-Man was past the point of no return and refused to be beaten by a few inches of water. He decided that he was going to get coffee from 7-11. He was going to escape from Byng Island.

Unfortunately for Uncle Nigel He-Man decided this escape was happening with his car.

He-Man won’t risk the Camry.

Chi-chi and I stood by the shore and watched as they slowly turned the car around and crept out into the flooded road. They were about 2 feet out when Chi-chi cell phone rang.

Chi-chi: Hello?

Neighbor: Did you know there’s a car floating down the road?

Chi-chi: That’s Herman and Nigel.

Neighbor: Oh. Well, they’re making decent progress.

Chi-chi: What’s happening now? We can’t see them anymore.

Neighbor: They’re inching along slowly. They went too fast just now and made a wave.

Me: What’s going on? Who’s on the phone?

Chi-chi: I think they’re turning back.

Me: Why are they turning back?

Chi-chi: There’s a wave.

Neighbor: Wait they’re almost at the end of the street.

Chi-chi: They’re almost at the end of the street.

Me: Ugh, I knew I should have gotten in the car.

Chi-chi: I wouldn’t have gotten in the car.

Me: Is that a gator?

Chi-chi: That’s a log.

Neighbor: THEY MADE IT! THEY MADE IT!

Chi-chi: The neighbor says they made it.

Me: Mom, I’m pretty sure that’s a gator and I’m pretty sure that used to be a koi. I’m going back in the house.

It turns it that it really was a log, but I’m still not exactly sure what killed the koi.

I’m placing my money on the ducks.

They can be quite deadly when they have free reign over the neighborhood.

And when I say “touchy” I mean “poke it with a stick and I will annihilate you.”

I really don’t like my name.

Over the years people have complimented me on it, told me it was extremely original, and said things like, “Oh that’s so pretty! I bet you’ve never met anyone else with that name!”

And I haven’t.

Because my name sucks. I’ve noticed that everyone who compliments me on my name is called something like “Mary,” “Martha,” or “Jean.” No one with a name like “Latisha” or “Bon-qui-qui” ever tells me my name is “original” or “unique.” They just shake their head and say, “Girl, I understand.”

Something strange happens when brown folk name their children. They could have been living in these here United States since the 1700s, but as soon as they produce progeny, you would think they just stepped off the boat into the new world. They may be more American than they are African, but they WILL name their child an “African” name just to prove that they are in fact black.

Unfortunately, they are so far removed from the continent that they end up naming their children things like “Shaneequa” or “Dekwan.”

I went to Kenya. I did not meet any Africans with a “la”, “sha”, or “da” at the beginning of their name.

I had two legitimately African friends as a child and their names were Bamakole and Tawakalitu.

Those are African names.

Barack is another African name.

Shatifa not so much.

I say all this to say that when my brown parents named me, they felt as though they had to pay homage to their African roots. Mind you our family has been living in the West Indies for quite some time. We’re more West Indian than we are African now. However, my parents, Herman and Carol aka He-Man and Chi-chi felt that they should give their children names that reflected their heritage.

So they named us Timothy, Akira, and Gyasi.

Tim lucked out.

Me and Kira not so much.

For those of you that have studied Japanese culture or watched any anime in the last twenty years, you’ll notice that “Akira” is actually a Japanese boys’ name.

According to He-Man “Akira” is Chi-chi’s fault.

He-Man: I wanted to name her ‘Kira’! I was all ready to name her ‘Kira’! That’s a good, strong African name. Then your mother added the ‘A’ and made her Japanese.

At least Kira has the option of going by “Kira”. That’s a nice silver lining to have at your disposal.

I was not so fortunate.

When I tell people that my name is “Gyasi” they hear “Jaycee” which is fine. However, as soon as they see my name on paper all hell breaks loose.

Person #1: Who is this “JAH-see” person I keep seeing copied on our emails? I’ve never seen him or heard of him. Is he new to the program?

Me: Actually that’s me.

Person #1: Really? That’s how you spell your name?

Me: Yes.

Person #1: How do you pronounce that?

Me: Jaycee.

Person #1: No really how do you pronounce that?

I know this post sounds incredibly bitter, so let me clarify: the name “Gyasi” in and of itself does not suck. What is sucky is the fact that I’m named “Gyasi”.

As I’ve mentioned in a previous blog post, “Gyasi” is actually an African boys’ name that means “wonderful child.” Why on earth would you choose to name your obviously female child “Gyasi”? Because you’re my mother and you apparently want to teach her at an early age that life’s not fair.

When I interrogated Chi-chi yet again about my name this is what happened:

Me: Out of all of the names on earth, why did you choose “JAH-see”?

Chi-chi: I didn’t name you “JAH-see” I named you “Jaycee”.

Me: What put the name “Jaycee” in your head?

Chi-chi: At one of my old jobs there was a man named “John Cacamo” and he went by “J.C.” He was really nice, so then I started to like the name “J.C.”

Me: So why didn’t you just name me “Jaycee” or two names that made “J.C.”

Uncle Nigel: (on his iPhone) I checked out this website and it says “Gyasi” is a very popular name in Maryland.

Chi-chi: Your father wanted you to have a unique name.

Me: So you chose “JAH-see.”

Chi-chi: I named you “Jaycee.”

Me: You gave me a boys’ name.

Uncle Nigel: According to Google there are 28,000 people in the United States named “Gyasi.”

Chi-chi: That’s a lot of people!

Uncle Nigel: That wouldn’t even fill a football stadium.

Me: How many of those “Gyasis” are women?

Uncle Nigel: Two.

Me: And I’m one of them.

Uncle Nigel: The other woman is called “Stephanie Gyasi.”

Me: So it’s not even her first name.

Uncle Nigel: Nope.

Chi-chi: You’re not helping.

Uncle Nigel: I wasn’t trying to.

Me: You gave me a boys’ name.

Chi-chi: The book where I found your name said it was a unisex name from Indonesia.

Last year we went on a boat ride through the Palm Beach intracoastal, drank wine on deck, and had lunch.

This year we went kayaking on the Jupiter inlet, drank mojitos on shore, and had lunch.

Do you notice a theme?

Since I’m no expert kayaker, I decided to ride in a two person kayak with my friend, Joanna. I don’t have the best luck with kayaks. The first time I went kayaking, I was 10 and got stuck in a clump of reeds for 45 minutes. The second time I went kayaking, I was 20 and I got stuck in the Palm Beach intracoastal because I was too tired to paddle against the current. The third time I went kayaking, I was 20 and six months and crashed into a tree which unleashed a cacophony of spiders into my kayak. The fourth time I went kayaking, I was 21 and crashed into another tree.

Do you notice a theme?

Joanna doesn’t have much more kayaking experience, but she has more common sense and better luck than me, so I figured with her at the helm I’d be ok.

You may be wondering why I would make the claim that Joanna had better luck. I can easily back up my former statement with another statement: we saw dolphins.

Not only did we see the dolphins, they swam alongside us.

Let’s do a quick comparison, shall we?

Gyasi + kayaking = mass destruction and vicious spider bites.

Gyasi + kayaking + Joanna = dolphins.

And that’s just my first piece of evidence. To further support my case I offer into evidence the second part of this tale.

When we were approaching the deck, we waved to one of the attendants to help us dock the kayak. He was busy, so he called over another attendant. In order for me to properly articulate what I felt when I saw attendant numero dos, you will have to play the song “Wild Thing” in your head…or pull it up on your Ipod.

I’ll wait.

…
…
…

Ready?

With that song playing in my head, I saw a 6 foot, dark-haired, perfectly tanned, and tattooed Adonis walking towards my kayak.

I nearly dropped my paddle in the ocean.

He grabbed our kayak with one hand and pulled us to the deck.

“You can hop out now,” he said, in a very husky and masculine voice.

Joanna proceeded to do just that; she hopped out of the kayak. It was a very light and spritely hop. She didn’t wobble or try to get her balance before she got out. Her hop was very neat and put together.

Then it was my turn.

I braced my arms on the edges of the kayak to try to stand up.

I realized that I could not.

I tried to find my center of gravity.

I realized that I could not.

I tried to hold onto the deck for support.

I realized that I could not.

“Um…Joanna, could you lend me a hand?” I said.

“Oh sure.”

I tried to use Joanna’s hand to pull myself out of the kayak.

I realized that I could not.

I tried to quell the shame that was rising up in my throat.

I realized that I could not.

I tried to think of another option to lift myself out of the kayak.

I realized that I could not.

So I rolled onto the deck.
In front of God, Joanna, and the Adonis, I put my butt on the soaking wet deck, and then proceeded to roll the rest of my hulking mass onto it.

And I definitely grunted as I did it.

Shall we compare again?

Joanna: kept her cool and looked like a Disney princess as she quickly hopped out of a kayak.

Gyasi: lost her fakaka and looked like a manatee as she rolled out of a kayak.

When I started writing about the 10K I had every intention to tell you how I felt while I was running, but I get sidetracked quite easily.

And to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t all that funny while I was running.

For some reason I thought it would be cool to wear a bright orange day glo shirt during the race.

At first I felt cool.

And then I just felt like a bombastic jerk.

But that’s an entirely different story.

Onto the race.

For those of you that don’t know, my sister, Kira, is currently 4 months pregnant. However, she was still able to run the race. As long as you were an active runner before you got pregnant, you can still run while you’re pregnant. Of course you should always check with your doctor first. Don’t take my word as law.

My family has no problem leaving one another during races, but since my sister is a faster runner than I am, I try to keep pace with her. This time around that wasn’t going to happen because she’s carrying an extra human inside her and can only push an 11-12 minute mile. I was hoping to stay between 9-9:30.

Within 2 minutes, I left my pregnant sister on that trail.

That’s just how we roll.

When the tables are turned I expect her to do the exact same thing.

Some people from Kira’s job were running the 10K as well, so we hooked up with them at the start line. She figured that I could keep pace with them and finish in 54 minutes like I had planned. Unfortunately, my sister put way too much faith in my abilities.

Her coworkers are capable of running 7 minute miles.

I’m not even capable of a 7 minute mile with roller blades.

Do you see where this is going?

About 30 second into the race I lost track of her coworkers and proceeded to keep pace with an elderly Jewish gentleman from Boca. How do I know he was from Boca? He was wearing a hat that said he was from Boca. He eventually passed me and that was when I noticed that he had pulled his socks up to his knees.

I think this was the source of his power.

I should have tackled him and rolled the socks back down to his ankles.

That probably would have slowed him down.

That and the broken hip he would have sustained from having my heaving girth barreling down on him.

Either way I would have beaten him.

However, I did not do these things and he ran right by me.

Instead I had to content myself with running behind a man in a shirt that said “NYAC” and trying to figure out what “NYAC” stood for. That kept me well entertained during my run. At least it kept me entertained until the hills came. Then I started hating life and hurling down Old Testament style curses on the Shelter Island landscape.

You have to understand that I had been training on a flat Floridian plain. Hills are not in my running repertoire. As it is, when I said to Kira, “Good Lord those hills were difficult!” She said, “Hills? Those aren’t hills. Those are minor inconveniences.”

I almost told her where she could put her minor inconvenience.

To say that there were a lot of hills in the course is to say that Saddam Hussein was only misunderstood. The entire course was full of hills. I started to get motion sick from running up and down so many hills. With each passing hill got angrier and angrier until I eventually started to think that the hills had a personal vendetta against me.

You know you’ve lost it when the race course you’re running on develops feelings…

And you start pleading with it for mercy.

But that’s an entirely different story.

I ended up finishing the race in 58 minutes. My orange day glo running shirt was completely soaked, two women in their sixties passed me in the last 400 meters, I couldn’t feel my pinky toe, and I had sweat in my eye.

He-Man finished it in 54. His face with lightly misted with sweat when I found him.

After the race Chris, one of Kira’s coworkers, asked me how I did.

I wanted to be polite and cheerful, but at that moment I was displeased with myself and wallowing in a bog of social ineptitude.

Shelter Island is about a 2 hour drive and ferry ride from my sister’s house in NY.

He-Man was fine with sitting in his own sweaty filth for the car ride home, but Kira and I were not. We decided to make use of the showers they offered at the race. They were indoors, there was an enclosed changing area, and they handed out free cups of shower gel. What more could one want in life?

Less nudity.

Much, much less nudity.

You may be saying, “Gyasi, you idiot, you were in a public shower. What did you expect?”

To that I would say, “I expected less casual nudity and more business like nudity.”

Let me explain that phrase because now that I have read it I realize that it sounds incredibly scandalous.

What I mean by “business like nudity” is that I expected all the women to come into the showers with their clothes on, stand in line with their clothes on, wait for a shower to become available with their clothes on, go to the next available shower with their clothes on, shower with their clothes off, put on a towel, and then put fresh clothes on.

That’s what I assumed went on in a public shower. I assumed that you tried to spend little time stark raving naked because other people can see you.

Oh how very, very wrong I was.

Apparently, the code of conduct in a public shower is this:

Come into the shower with your clothes on, begin to undress while standing in the line, finish undressing while standing in the line, wait for the next shower to become available while standing naked in the line, talk to your equally naked friend while standing naked in the line, shower naked in the public shower, finish showering, air dry your nakedness, ask a friend if she likes your shoes while you air dry your nakedness, and then put fresh clothes on.

Please do not think that I’m a prude becau- ok, never mind I’m a freakin’ prude.

Don’t ask me why or how I became the way I am, but I really like to wear clothes. I don’t judge the nudists, but I still wonder why on earth they would want to be so very naked when there are so many pretty things to wear. There are pants in the world! There are button down shirts! There are maxi dresses with stripes!

Why on earth would you want to be naked?

I’m practically giddy when I get dressed every morning.

I think of all the possibilities and I practically faint from excitement.

This is not to say that I am the snazziest of all snazzy dressers.

My dear friends can attest to that.

I’ve often been told that I look like the embodiment of corporate America.

Anyway, I’ve seen enough naked ladies to last me a lifetime. This is uncomfortable for me because I have to be a naked lady at least twice a day. I may have to wear a blindfold whenever I shower to avoid seeing another naked lady. Or I could just paint all my full length mirrors black.

My father is turning 60 this year. He’s been running since his 20s, so he looks very good for his age. Running keeps you young. Unfortunately, all that running has taken a toll on his knees and his hips. He doesn’t run as much as he used to, but he still manages to get in 1-2 runs a weeks. He used to average 2-3 races a year when my siblings and I were kids, but now he goes years without doing a race. Whenever my sister mentions a race she plans on doing, He-Man always says, “That sounds great. If my knees would let me I would do that race.”

He winces and stretches and ices his knees and then winces and stretches and ices his knees again after every run. We would all feel really badly for how much his knees pain him except for one thing:

He’s full of crap.

This is what happens every time I run a race with my father:

4 weeks before the race

Me: Dad, are you going for a run today?

He-Man: Naaaaaawwww, my knees are in such bad shape now. I can’t even run the same way I used to. My hips are killing me too. You know, I never should have signed up for this race. I don’t think I can make it, the way my body is acting up lately.

3 weeks before the race

Me: Dad, you want to go for a run with me today?

He-Man: Not now, but I may go a bit later. My knees are killing me today. I need to run, but my knees give me so much trouble. I don’t think I could even make 2 miles the way they’re feeling. You go ahead. I may have to ice them and then try tomorrow.

2 weeks before the race

Me: Dad, did you run today?

He-Man: I got 3 miles in, but then I had to turn back because my knees were giving me so much trouble. They just started singing and I tried to keep going, but I didn’t want to push it. I don’t know if I can do that race. I may start running and then walk the rest. With all that heat and those hills I’ll never make it. I won’t even be able to do a 9 minute mile.

1 week before the race

Me: I’m going for a run.

He-Man: Good for you! I wish I could run today, but the way my knees are feeling…I used to be able to push a 6 minute mile on a good day. I don’t think I could even do a 10 minute mile now. Make sure you stretch when you’re done running; not stretching enough is what killed my poor knees.

The day of the race

Me: Ready?

He-Man: Oh I don’t know. I think I’ll run the first few miles and then walk the rest. My knees can only handle so much. I don’t want to make them any worse than they already are. I’m just hoping to finish the race.

2 miles into the race

Me: Where the heck did He-Man go?

The end of the race

He-Man: You know my knees held up much better than I thought they would! I’ll have to put lots of ice on them, but I was able to keep a 7:30-8 minute mile the whole time! How did you do?

Me: …I’m going to get a banana.

He-Man: Bring me some orange slices! Citrus is good for your knees.

I think my father gets a schadenfreudic pleasure out of beating my sister and me in every race we do as a family.

A little piece of my runner’s soul dies every time my father (who is nearly thrice my age) beats me in every race.

I’m hoping that by the time he’s 90 he’ll only be pulling an 8:45 mile.

When I finished the Disney Princess Half-Marathon I figured it would be a while before I ran another race.

Alas, that was not to be.

My sister called me about a month ago and said, “We should run the Shelter Island 10K together.”

To which I replied, “Screw you.”

In Kira’s universe “Screw you” means “My, my, my! That sounds perfectly lovely! Do sign us up right away!”

So I started training for a 10K.

I started training for a 10K in the middle of summer in South Florida.

I have been one angry monkey for the last month.

Even though a 10K is only 6.2 miles, about half the length of a half-marathon, I had gotten into a 2-3 mile running streak. I would do 4 if the weather wasn’t terrible, but since I didn’t have anything to train for, and the Florida skies are capricious, I wouldn’t feel badly if I went 3 days without a run. Once I went a whole week and felt nary a care in the world. Despite the fact that I love running, when it’s raining outside, I love sitting even more.

I grow especially fond of sitting when it’s 87 degrees outside.

On my personal “Levels of Suckitude” chart, training for a 10K in the middle of summer is a well-established ten. Florida summers are not nice by any stretch of the imagination. They are hot, muggy, and unpleasant. When you’re not sweating off layers of skin you’re drenched to the bone with rain. Nothing else on my “Levels of Suckitude” chart compares with training for a 10K in the summer. Take a look:

Level 1- Getting a hangnail on your big toe.

Level 2- Your roommate leaving a dribble of milk in the container.

Level 3- Emmalyn farting on you in her sleep.

Level 4- Standing in line in front of someone with no sense of personal space.

Level 5- Breaking a heel while walking up a flight of stairs.

Level 6- Having the crotch of your pants rip open while doing crunches at the gym.

Level 7- Realizing five licks too late that you’re allergic to the main ingredient in your popsicle.

Level 8- Being stood up on a date.

Level 9- Not being able to find the source of the draft in your house.

Level 10- Training for a 10K in the middle of a South Florida summer.

Since I am an Olympic gold medalist complainer, let me exercise my skills and tell you how much it sucks to train for a 10K in the summer.

Imagine that every Monday-Friday you have to wake up between 5:30-6am in order to get to work on time. Sundays you have to wake up by 7:30am in order to make it to church. Saturday is the only day you get to lounge in bed. On Saturday you get to wake up whenever you want, stay in bed and read for an hour or so if you choose, and then slowly roll out of bed and start your day.

When you have to train for a 10K, this is what your Saturday looks like:

6:30am- Wake up

6:31am- Cry

6:32am- Stop feeling sorry for yourself

6:37am Get dressed

6:37am- Drink aloe vera juice mixed with pomegranate for energy

6:37:08am- Gag on aloe vera juice mixed with pomegranate

6:37:10am- Curse Chi-chi and her cockamamie schemes

6:38am- Warm up

6:45am- Start running

Do you know who’s awake at 6:45am on a Saturday? Me and crickets. No one else. When I run at 6:45 on a Saturday there are no cars out on the road. The dogs in the yards I pass aren’t awake. They bark at me because I’ve ruined their sleeping in day. Even the birds in the trees aren’t up yet. Running at the crack of dawn on a Saturday is the most depressing thing you will ever experience. Unfortunately, you have to run at that time during the summer. If you run once the sun is in full sun mode then you will have to be scrapped off the sidewalk about 5 minutes into your run.

Because you will melt.

Or spontaneously combust.

Either way you’re gonna die.

I’m not saying that it’s impossible to run in such humid heat. It’s entirely possible for people who are not me. However, I am me; therefore, it is impossible. As it is, I had to do my long runs on Saturdays because I didn’t get out of work in time during the week to run more than 3 miles. Every Friday night I would go to bed and start prepping myself for a 6-7 mile run.

Every night I went to bed angry.

Sometimes I like to pray during my runs, but I couldn’t while I was training because the first time I tried my prayer came out something like this:

“Dear Lord, thank you for this blistering hot Saturday morning. Thank you for the birds that are sleeping in the trees and the mosquitoes that have not yet come out because it’s 6 o’clock in the morning. On a Saturday. Thank you for my quad muscles that are in the process of cramping and that squashed frog carcass that I didn’t see in time. I love scraping amphibians off my shoe. Thank you for that lovely storm cloud looming in the distance which I will most likely encounter. Thank you for the rain that will soak me to the bone and then go away in five minutes. Florida is a blessed place, is it not, Lord? Thank you for Florida!”

That kind of sarcastic praying will earn you a one way slingshot to Hades.

This is because I now have time to think about something other than school work.

Unfortunately, these moments of self-discovery usually leave me forlorn and depressed.

About two days ago I discovered that I really, really, really like to worry. I knew I was a bit of a worry wort, but I didn’t realize how much of a worry wort I was until I legitimately created something for myself to worry over. My life has become so dull and uneventful (save my regular Words with Friends battles) that I actually created something in my head to worry over. It all started about a month ago when my sister said she was going to give me some gummy bears. “Give me some gummy bears” is code for “situation I’m not ready to discuss on my blog yet.”

To this I replied, “Oh, gummy bears would be really nice. I haven’t had gummy bears in forever and a day.”

She said, “I think you’ll really like the gummy bears.”

I said, “Don’t get all confident now; they’re just gummy bears.”

Two days went by and my life was going along at its usual summery, lackadaisical pace. The days were long, the nights were humid, and I had time to sit in bed and read in the evening. Life was glorious. Life was grand. After months of sleep deprivation, stress, anxiety, peevishness, and mental breakdowns, I was finally able to relax. I could go for a run if I wanted to and not have to worry about the stack of student papers waiting to be graded. I could go to lunch with a friend and not think about the 50 pages of theory I had to read for class the next day.

I should have been happy, right?

Wrong.

Apparently, I’m not happy unless I’m miserable.

When my sister told me, “I’m going to give you some gummy bears” I should have mentally added “gummy bears” to the “List of Things That Are Finally Going Well In My LIfe.” At first I did, but then TOO many things were going well in my life. I was TOO relaxed and happy. I was TOO at ease with how things were playing out. So I took “I’m going to give you gummy bears” off the list and proceeded to hang myself with it.

If I have nothing to worry about, I will create something to worry about. This is what I started doing with “I’m going to give you gummy bears.”

“Well, why is she giving me gummy bears now? Why does she think I would want those gummy bears? What if I get the gummy bears and I don’t like the gummy bears? She knows I only like red, green, and clear gummy bears, what if these gummy bears are orange and yellow? I cannot handle orange and yellow gummy bears! If the gummy bears are orange and yellow then why would she think do give them to me? I’m so stressed out about these gummy bears. Gummy bears bring you nothing but trouble. I should never eat gummy bears ever again. Why do people even like gummy bears? All that sugar goes straight to your thighs! Ugh, that’s it, I’m not taking the gummy bears no matter how hard she tries to give them to me… But what if I really like the gummy bears? What if they are red, green, and clear? What if there is nary a yellow and orange gummy in sight? Ok, fine, I’ll take the gummy bears. Everyone could use a gummy bear now and then. Everything in moderation. Then again, I could like the gummy bears too much and then where would I be? Back in the land of “Crap, my pants don’t fit” that’s what’ll happen! Oh good Lord is it 2am?”

That’s what I did for about 2 weeks.

And because I’m a Christian, I asked my friends to pray about the gummy bears.

Me: I’m really stressed out about these gummy bears. Would you guys mind praying for me?

Friends: Sure! Of course! We love you, Gyasi!

3 Weeks Later…

Me: I’m just so stressed out about these gummy bears. Would you guys pray for me?

Friends: Whatever.

That’s not to say that my friends are callous and uncaring. They’re a wonderful bunch and I love them dearly. Part of how they love me is by giving me a swift slap over the head when I get into worry mode. The thing is “gummy bears” is also code for “a situation that is not all that important and really does not need to be discussed for 3 weeks straight.” Gummy bears is not a situation that deserves so much time and energy. Instead of worrying like there’s not tomorrow (and if there weren’t that would be something to worry about) I could be revising a paper to send to submit to a scholarly journal, working on my thesis, taking up folk dancing, admiring myself in a mirror, reading classic novels and then acting like a pretentious douchebag (aka being myself), or teaching Emmalyn how to send sarcastic text messages. She’s already learned how to take video on my iTouch. By the end of next week I could have her playing Words with Friends.